


with a grateful heart

by elisela



Series: southpaw [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Slice of Life, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisela/pseuds/elisela
Summary: Six years, three Thanksgivings.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: southpaw [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014576
Comments: 19
Kudos: 422





	with a grateful heart

**Author's Note:**

> This got away from me, whoops. I have a lot of feelings about Stiles, so ... yep. Like everything I write, completely unedited. I should probably start doing that.

**2019**

Half of Stiles’ clothes—the non-Mets branded half—cover the room; skinny jeans in disarray at the foot of the bed, shaken out and creeping down to the floor, flung over the back of the cozy armchair that’s just big enough for both of them if Stiles sits half on his lap. There’s a trail of shirts that lead to the closet, stretched out like they’re about to come to life, a Fantasia reenactment working through Derek’s mind. In the middle of the room is Stiles, holding two button downs in his hands, shaking them at Derek with a slightly crazed look in his eyes.

“That one,” Derek says, motioning to what looks like a deep wine burgundy shirt, though the room is dim, lit only by a single lamp on Stiles’ nightstand. 

“Lydia said the other,” Stiles says, looking at them indecisively. “She said the green would go with your eyes.”

Derek’s head hurts. “Just bring them both,” he says. 

He dry-swallows two Aleve when he wakes up in the middle of the night, stumbles to the bathroom to drink straight from the sink after, letting the cool water flow into his mouth and run down his neck. His mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, blood pounding through the veins at his temples. Stiles has a habit of turning the heat up higher than Derek likes and it’s unbearable tonight; he doesn’t bother getting under the blankets when he crawls back into bed, just eases himself down on top of the nest Stiles builds for himself every night and hopes his headache is gone when he wakes up for their too-early flight.

The flight is brutal. 

Stiles is nervous, talking non-stop about everything and nothing. It reminds Derek of when they met, of the phone calls that would last hours as Stiles strolled around Beacon Hills and described everything he passed to Derek, of the way they’d hold hands as they wandered around the city together, Stiles’ voice in his ear the only constant. He feels guilty now for wanting it to stop, for wanting just another few hours of peace before they arrive at the cabin. He holds it in, rests his head against the back of the seat and runs his thumb slowly over Stiles’ wrist. He just needs more sleep, has been running on empty for days now, staying at school until nearly 8:00pm in order to fit in all the parent conferences he’d needed to have before he left for Thanksgiving break. 

He shouldn’t have left introducing Stiles to his parents this late. He should have insisted on dinner at one point before they left, despite everyone being busy, should have just shown up with Stiles in tow one morning for breakfast, because Stiles might have asked to come along for Thanksgiving this year but he hadn’t seemed to realize that meant six long days with Derek’s family in a cabin with no escape until the moment they stepped on the plane.

“They’ll love you,” he says again. He can’t hear the stutter-step of Stiles’ breath over the engine, but he knows it’s there. The words tear up his throat like knives; he fucking hates flying, the way it dries out his throat and leaves him feeling stuffy. He takes the ginger ale off Stiles’ tray and drinks out of it, presses the cold glass to his cheek when he’s done. He’d been cold this morning, but his two layers of sweaters are doing him no favors on the warm plane now.

“It’s a last minute interview,” Cora says. She sounds annoyed, like they’ve had this conversation already. Maybe they have; Derek must have been more tired than he thought. “You two should go now, I can fly to Duluth tomorrow morning and you can come pick me up then.”

He thinks he falls asleep; he drifts at least, folds the hoodie Stiles had stripped off after he got into the car into a makeshift pillows and leans it against the cool window that’s fogging up with his breath and lets Stiles deal with Cora. He should probably feel worse about it, given that Cora is his sister and is clearly not in a great mood, but they get along well and he’s not really worried. They’ll figure it out, he’ll nap, and by the time they get to the diner, everything will be fine.

Everything is not fine.

Derek aches all over when he wakes up, blinking bleary-eyed at the snow-covered trees rushing past them as Stiles drives. It’s deep in his bones, nothing a stretch will clear out, nothing a nap—another one—will fix. His throat feels like coarse sandpaper, feels like it’s ripping open when he swallows, but the pounding in his head stretches across the rest, like a sledgehammer to the middle of his forehead every time he moves, crashing back into him with each shiver of his body.

“Stiles,” he says—croakes, maybe; he’s not actually sure if he made enough noise to be heard. He tries clearing his throat to speak again and the pain is unbearable.

Stiles shushes him, takes a hand off the wheel to ghost along his arm before grabbing his hand. He doesn’t talk until he’s pulled off on the next exit and into a busy gas station, fingers rubbing into the lines of Derek’s palm. “Melissa thinks it’s the flu,” he says after he cuts the engine, twisting to press a cool hand to Derek’s forehead. “You didn’t wake up when I stopped at the diner so I called—she’s a nurse, remember?—you’re still really hot, Derek, hold on, I have some—”

Derek stops listening. He lets Stiles talk as he scrambles around, bags rustling until he’s shoving pills into Derek’s hands. “We should get a hotel,” Derek manages, wincing as he swallows them down with tea that’s nearly cold. He wonders when Stiles got it. “I can’t—”

“I called your mom,” Stiles says in a rush, like he thinks Derek will be upset. “I got her number from your phone, I figured with the baby it was better to be safe—”

“There’s a place in town,” he says. He hopes there’s room open; it’s a small town, but it’s also Thanksgiving.

“They got a second cabin for Laura this year,” Stiles says. “Laura’s pissed at you, said you always wanted what she had. Your mom said we could stay there instead so there wasn’t any chance Sophie could get sick. Sorry, babe, guess it’s just you and me this year after all.”

“I can think of worse,” he rasps. He drops his head back against the window and closes his eyes, feels the rhythm of the car sway when Stiles slides out and the door swings shut behind him and his stomach lurches with it. He tries to remember the last time he ate and fails, can’t remember if he’d eaten the granola bar Stiles had shoved into his hand on the way to the airport or not. 

The overhead light turns on a moment later and the car sways again, and Derek cracks an eye open just in time to see Stiles clamber in with a paper cup from the gas station clutched in his hand, a four-pack of red Jell-O in the other. “Drink all this,” he directs, picking up Derek’s hand to cup around it, “and then eat one of these—I know they’re not exactly healthy but the options were limited.”

Derek squeezes his hand and takes a drink of the overly sweet tea, almost feels the honey coating his tongue as the rapidly melting ice bumps against his lip. “Thank you,” he says. Talking isn’t something he wants to be doing right now, not with the way the words tear out of his throat, but even with the haze over his mind he can see all the little ways that Stiles has been taking care of him all day, feels grateful for the way he’s taken over. “You make me feel better.”

“Gonna get sick,” he mutters when Stiles hauls him closer on the bed, wrapping one arm around Derek’s waist and pushing his cold nose against Derek’s flushed neck.

“I had my tongue down your throat last night, I think that’s an inevitability,” Stiles responds. A yawn breaks his words; Derek feels his mouth move until a kiss gets pressed against his nape. “You need anything else? There’s water and medicine on the nightstand, tissues—is it warm enough? Should I flip on the bathroom light for you?”

He still aches, but he’s slept all day and now, drowsy as he is, sleep feels like something he can’t reach. “Tell me something,” he says. He loves the sound of Stiles’ voice, the soothing, rapid rhythm of it, the familiar cadence. “About—about your mom.” He wonders if it’s okay to bring up, if it’s too painful around a holiday, and he’s about to offer another topic when Stiles snuggles into him and nods.

“You know I kept playing baseball because of her? When we were six she took us—you know, Scotty, Jackson, and me—to ice cream after our first real little league game and said she’d watch us in the majors some day. So I just … never quit. It feels like she’s watching me when I play because of that, because she never broke a promise, not once, not even when she said that if I got a hundred on my spelling test in second grade she’d take me for ice cream and the car broke down—she made Dad come pick us up in the squad car. We sat in the back together and—oh my _God_ I just realized there was definitely another meaning to those handcuff jokes, Christ, I need to go scrub my brain with bleach—”

“I’m thankful you fell for my charm,” Stiles says, pulling Derek back against his chest on the couch, bowl of mashed potatoes balanced in one hand as the other carefully scratches through Derek’s hair, no doubt making it stand on end. “And that your ass looks so good in baseball pants. Or any pants. And _no_ pants. When it comes down to it, I’m just thankful for your ass.”

“I’m thankful we’re not at a table with my parents,” Derek grumbles, but he smiles as he digs the spoon into the bowl. He’s still not hungry, but Talia Hale is an intimidating sight when she’s worried about her children, and the thermometer flashing _101.3_ earlier in the day hadn’t helped his cause. He knows she’ll be back when they’re finished with dinner in the main cabin, and Stiles will rat him out in a heartbeat if he doesn’t eat something other than Jell-O.

“It’s your turn to tell me how thankful you are for me,” Stiles prompts, knees wiggling on either side of Derek’s body. “Spare no detail.”

“Throat hurts,” he says, and Stiles scoffs behind him.

“That might have worked before you launched an impassioned speech about me leaving wet towels on the floor,” Stiles says, “but no more. You’ve downed a whole bottle of Chloraseptic today, you can manage a sentence about what you’re grateful for on Thanksgiving.”

“That you’re here,” he says, licking overly-pureed potatoes off the spoon. “That you’re spending your time taking care of me, that you’ve read to me all day, that you haven’t complained about only having ten DVDs total for five days—”

“ _Yet_ ,” Stiles cuts in. “When we finish them all tomorrow, it’ll come.”

His time in the cabin is a fever dream, comes and goes like the slide of Stiles’ fingers through his hair. He isn’t truly present for much of their stay, just drifts in and out of awareness over the next few days, spending most of his time asleep:

Stiles curled up with him on the couch, book dangling from his hand and head tipped up, mouth open as he sleeps with one arm around Derek’s shoulders, chest rising and falling beneath Derek’s head—

His mom whispering in his ear as she holds the back of her hand against his forehead, Tupperware containers of food stacked on the coffee table behind her—

Cora laughing with Stiles outside the cabin, standing at the end of the driveway and shouting louder than strictly necessary about whatever comes to their mind—

Here, always, surrounded by nature and his family and _love_.

**2021**

He can’t find Stiles. 

It’s not often that Stiles slips out of his sight in a crowd—Derek seems to have developed a knack for finding him within seconds over the years, built from nights spent watching him pitch from the box at Citi Field, keeping an eye on the television for a glimpse when the camera panned to the bullpen—but he’s gone now, disappeared within seconds in the airport the moment Derek leaned down to dig his boarding pass out of his carry-on. 

He will not worry. So their flight is boarding and Stiles has disappeared for a last-minute … something. Derek’s pretty sure he’d said where he was going, but Derek’s been in his own head for weeks (months, maybe) now and can’t seem to focus on anything but what he promised himself he’d do back in May, so he’s not entirely sure _what_ Stiles had said. But he’s an adult and can board the plane just fine on his own, and there’s no reason to worry when the line of people marching past their seats slows down to a crawl and Stiles still isn’t there, or when the flight attendant leans over and asks if he’d like a drink before take-off. Derek’s not on the verge of getting out of his seat and asking to be let off the flight at all, there’s no tightness in his chest, no worrisome ache—

He hears Stiles before he sees him, feet thundering up the jetway and a breezy greeting thrown towards the flight attendant as he darts past the galley and throws himself into the aisle seat that Derek left open for him. “God, that took _forever_ ,” he says, leaning over and kissing Derek’s cheek sloppily. There’s a book clutched in his hand with a receipt sticking out of it, palm closed around the spine, thumb fanning the corner of the pages. “I just remembered this came out today—we read the first two last year at the cabin, remember? I had to get it, it’s tradition now. You liked it, didn’t you?”

“One time isn’t tradition,” Derek says, tugging the book away from him. He’d liked the series just fine, but what he really liked was the hours spent together, trading the book back and forth while they read aloud, wrapped up in each other and oblivious to the hustle and craziness of his family buzzing around the house. “But we could make it one,” he adds. “Don’t forget it on the plane.”

“I’m _offended_ ,” Stiles says, tossing the book on Derek’s lap as the flight attendant comes around with their drinks, smiling brightly as she reminds him to fasten his seatbelt. “That happens so rarely—”

“Just ten or fifteen times a year,” Derek interrupts, shaking his head. Stiles is notorious for leaving things behind on a plane, including items he’d sworn never left his backpack. 

Stiles shrugs and grins at him. “Guess you better keep it, then, or I’ll have nothing to read to you.”

“I’m just saying that a _real_ diner has curly fries,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow and pushing the basket of waffle fries towards Derek. “The quality of the food is not being debated here, it’s the forethought they lacked to include the superior potato product in their menu, which lowers them from _diner_ to _roadside cafe_.”

“It’s called _11th Street Diner_ ,” Derek says, pausing with both hands on the burger held right in front of his mouth to give Stiles a skeptical look. “Pretty sure it’s a diner.”

“Pretty sure your _face_ is a diner,” Stiles says, cramming a waffle fry in his mouth. There’s a draft of cold air when the door opens and Stiles’ face lights up just a few seconds before a high-pitched shriek fills the air and the sound of quick-moving feet turns into Sophie slamming herself into Stiles’ legs, chubby hands clutching at his body as he lifts her into the air and onto his lap.

Laura’s hand lands on Derek’s shoulder a moment later, her cold cheek pressed against his as she kisses him, falling into the booth next to him. “Thank God,” she says, yanking the basket of chicken strips towards her and starting to tear them into bite-sized pieces, “she’s been crying about how hungry she is, I thought she was going to have a complete melt-down and I’m not sure how you knew to order for us but I’m so thankful you did. I’ll never call you my least favorite brother again. Sit down, Soph, and—” Laura stops and blinks, looking at the table while frowning.

“It’s fine,” Stiles says. He’s smiling, chin propped up on Sophie’s small shoulders, arms wrapped around her tiny frame. He envelopes her completely, and Derek feels the smile on his face start to turn into something more wistful and yearning as Stiles turns his face and blows a raspberry into her neck. 

“This wasn’t for us,” Laura says, sounding sheepish. “Stiles, I’m so sorry—”

He pulls the basket towards him and sets it in front of Sophie. “We can share until another one comes,” he says, “can’t we, Soso?”

“Bye bye,” she says happily. “Bye bye bye bye.”

“That’s a yes,” Laura says. “Or maybe that she needs to go to the bathroom. Perhaps even goodbye. Who even knows anymore, it’s like the flight scrambled her brain. Bye is all she’s said—except for no—since we left London. God, I’m exhausted. And hungry, where’s the waitress?”

He looks at the burger that he’s yet to take a bite out of in his hands, sets it back in the red plastic basket, and pushes it over. “Here,” he says. “It’s your favorite, anyway.” Laura doesn’t even try to argue, just picks it up and takes a bite, sighing and leaning her head against Derek’s shoulder. “Stiles won’t mind if you have his inferior potato product either.”

She laughs as Stiles winks from across the table. “Crinkle cut, am I right? They hold the salt just right—”

“I’m breaking up with this family,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Soso, you coming with me? Run away with your uncle, I’ll teach you about good baseball and better potato products.”

She leans over and licks his cheek, three pieces of a chicken strip clutched in her hand and ranch dressing smeared up to her wrist, then looks over at Laura and Derek. “Bye bye,” she says, cramming the food in her mouth, and Derek falls in love with Stiles all over again at the soft, adoring look on his face when he kisses her chunky cheek.

“I have never seen such a lovesick fool in my life,” Laura says, slinking into the bathroom and closing the door softly behind her. Derek’s been put on bath duty for Sophie and he barely glances up at his sister, content to lean his forearm on the bathtub rim and flick bubbles at his niece while she giggles.

“Stiles? You know he loves her,” Derek says, grinning when Sophie upends a cup of water over her head and shrieks. “He offered me a million dollars to haul in the firewood so he could hang with Soso instead.”

Laura rolls her eyes and sits down next to him, plopping her feet into his lap. “Not Stiles, you idiot, _you_. Well, him too, but I was talking about the way that little hearts start flying around your head whenever he so much as looks at the baby.”

He opens his mouth to—argue? Protest? Deny?—but the door opens again and Cora falls in, tripping over Laura’s outstretched arm before sliding down the closed door until her back is against the floor, knees bent and feet shoved under Laura’s thighs. “Hide me from Dad,” she says, flinging an arm over her eyes. “Retirement is not good for him. I’ve had to hear about the subtle differences in the six different mac and cheese recipes he’s tried out for Thanksgiving—since when do we eat fucking mac and cheese at Thanksgiving?”

“Language,” Laura says mildly, rolling her eyes. She winces when Sophie splashes, water flying up over their heads. “I’m not mad about the food, though. Anything is better than Mom’s attempt at making the green bean casserole healthy like she did last year.”

Cora groans. “I brought so much junk food just in case,” she says. “I think Stiles already stole some of the Doritos, though.”

“I’ll get them back for you,” Derek says, swirling his hand through the water and pushing more bubbles towards Sophie. She’s intent on dunking the floating blue whale under the water, smiling wide when it pops back up with frothy white bubbles on its head. 

“Nah, brought them for everyone,” Cora says, lifting her hand to wave it around idly. “Anyway, what’s the gossip? What have I missed?”

“Derek’s adopted thirty-two babies with his future husband in his head already,” Laura says, running her hand through the water to splash at him when he starts flicking bubbles at her. “Which leads me to—when are you gonna put a ring on that and make him Sophie’s uncle for real? I thought for sure he’d show up with one this year.”

Derek groans, feels the flush painted across his cheeks. He could lie to his sisters, but they’d likely drag it out of him anyway and, well. He could probably use the help. “I tried to propose in October, after the season ended,” he admits. “I’ve been thinking about it for a few months—”

“Years,” Cora interjects.

He rolls his eyes, keeping his eyes on Sophie so he doesn’t have to see the looks they’re about to give him. “I asked him the day after the season ended, only—I guess I didn’t really ask. At least, not enough that he recognized it as a proposal,” he mutters, dropping his forehead onto his arm as he relays the way they’d walked around the city for hours until he’d taken Stiles to the hill in Prospect Park where they’d had their first date, wrapped him up and whispered, _I want to marry you_.

His sisters sound like dying hyenas when he’s done and Sophie startles before joining in, throwing her head back and howling with laughter over a story she can’t even begin to understand. Laura laughs so hard that her cheeks are streaked with tears, and Cora shimmies until she’s laying on her stomach, shoulders shaking as she buries her head in her folded arms. 

“Only you,” Laura says, wiping under her eyes and grinning at him. “Do you have the ring with you?”

“I don’t have one,” Derek says, frowning. “I—am I supposed to get one? Do you get one for a man?”

“You’re the biggest loser I know,” Cora says. “Hearing this made my life, Der. Alright. Leave it to Lo and I, we’ll get you engaged by the time our trip is over.”

“That’s—no,” Derek says, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

Laura sits up straight, a sweet, terrifying smile sliding onto her face. “Cora and I won’t interfere,” she says, slapping at Cora’s thigh when she makes a sound of protest, “until we’re back in New York. So you’ve got five days to suck it up and get your happy ending on your own.” There’s a loaded pause before Cora breaks down into a fit of giggles, slapping her hand against the floor while Derek decides he’s been nice enough, scoops up a cupped handful of bath water, and flings it at Laura.

The problem with proposing while they’re at the cabin is that they have almost no time alone, and Derek can’t bring himself to ask while Stiles is in the middle of giving him a rushed blow job in the ten minutes it takes them to shower together in the morning. They don’t spend a lot of time together during the day—Stiles doesn’t ski because he’s worried he’ll cause irreparable damage to his arm (Derek … doesn’t disagree. Stiles is fine if he’s on his feet, but strapped to skis or skates is another story) and Laura takes advantage of that, chasing after Sophie in the morning before dropping her on the couch with Stiles after lunch for a nap and not reappearing until the sun sets. Dinner is a chaotic mess with Sophie attempting to help with both cooking and cleaning up and only managing to make things take twice as much time, which ends up leading to a temper-tantrum and tears. By the time she’s down for the night, everyone is sprawled out in the living room watching a movie, and Derek’s so worn out that he can’t manage to do anything but pull Stiles into the bedroom and hold him close as they drift off to sleep. 

He could probably ask then, when they’re drowsy and content with each other, wrapped up in limbs and blankets, but he thinks Stiles deserves more than a half-awake proposal. Which is why, for their second to last day at the cabin, he breaks from tradition and drags Stiles out to Chippewa Falls for the Christmas light display. 

His parents used to take them when they were kids, bribing them to get along in the backseat of the car with cups of hot cocoa piled high with whipped cream and the promise of stacks of pancakes for dinner at the local diner. They’d wander around for hours looking at the light display, flopping around in the snow and finding quiet spaces to make snow angels and sneak around, trying to smash snow into each other’s faces. They’d grown out of it by the time Derek was a teenager; Laura was constantly reading, worrying herself sick about getting into college and Cora was more interested in stealing Laura’s phone to talk to her friends. Derek was content to just go along until they spent more time bickering than laughing and he’d never thought he’d cared one way or another that they’d stopped making the trip until Stiles pulled him right down to lay in the snow under one of the lit up arches and rested his head against Derek’s shoulder. 

“This is awesome,” Stiles says. His head is tilted in towards Derek’s, warm breath puffing across Derek’s cheek and leaving a chill in its wake. “I can’t believe you stopped coming.”

He shrugs the best he can with Stiles pinning one of his shoulders down. The bitter cold of the snow is starting to seep through his layers but he’s unwilling to move. “Mom and Dad were tired of driving us all this way when all we would do is fight. Dad brought me once—Cora was at Berkeley and decided not to come and Laura was doing her residency and couldn’t—but it wasn’t the same without them. It’s good with you though,” he adds, turning his head and kissing Stiles’ temple. “I bet Laura would let us bring Soso when she’s older.”

Stiles hums, pushing himself up and grabbing Derek by the hand. “Maybe we could bring our kids, too,” he says. “You think?”

He pulls Stiles close and slides a hand around the back of his neck as they trade soft, lazy kisses, breath floating up between them, curling white into the inky black sky. “Marry me,” he says, lips still brushing against Stiles’ as he talks. There’s an ache in his chest as he holds Stiles, a sweet, beautiful pressure behind his rib cage, a dam bursting in his heart. “Soon, or after next season, or during the break—marry me and we can start our own traditions, or keep old ones going, bring our kids here until they roll their eyes and tell us they’re too old and we’re lame. I want that with you—I want forever with you.”

Stiles’ laughter floats into his mouth as he winds his arms tighter around Derek’s waist. “Like I’d say anything but yes,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb up the sharp edge of Derek’s jaw and across his cheek, over and over. “You said I could keep you forever. I was always going to hold you to that.”

The cabin is quiet when they return, the opening scenes of Holiday Inn playing out on the television; Stiles kisses him as they strip off their damp clothes, slow and wet, hands wandering until Derek backs him up onto the bed and holds a hand over his mouth as he works Stiles open with his fingers and fucks him so slowly it feels like it lasts for hours. They shower together before joining the family in the living room; Stiles slouches down in the open space next to Talia, head resting against her shoulder, and Derek waits for Cora to shuffle around so he lay with his head in Stiles—in his _fiancés_ —lap. Stiles’ fingers dig into his hair immediately and Derek closes his eyes and lets himself drift, listening to Bing Crosby’s smooth voice coming from the speakers. 

He’s almost asleep when he hears his mom ask if they had a good time, and Stiles’ thumb drags along his forehead when he says softly, voice radiating contentment, “It was great. Did you know Derek was going to propose? He thinks Lydia will plan everything for us, but he’s forgetting that Scotty’s an incurable romantic. Lyds will flawlessly execute any plan we give her, of course, but I’m betting that Scott will be sending us pinterest boards within ten minutes of finding out—and then there’s Allison, who’s just as bad—”

**2023**

Stiles looks ready to turn around and go back to New York on his own by the time Derek pulls into the driveway at the cabin. Norah, as it turns out, hates the car—something they didn’t learn until fifteen minutes after they got her in the rental car, tiny arms flailing as her cheeks turn bright red from screaming and her chest heaves. It had simultaneously broken Derek’s heart and set his teeth on edge, but despite Stiles crawling into the back and leaning over her carseat, singing songs and trying to soothe her, she’d screamed herself hoarse and the two hour drive ended up taking nearly five with all the stops they’d made to pull her out and hold her until she calmed.

He pulls Norah out of Stiles’ arms before his husband even climbs out of the car, tugging one side of his coat over her tiny body and kissing her nose. “Come on, little one,” he says, “let’s get you inside to—”

Sophie’s shriek breaks the stillness around them. “NONO! Uncle Derek, can I have her? Can I hold her? Please?” She’s dancing just inside the open cabin door, hopping up and down like crazy, a pleading look on her face.

He waits until Stiles slides out of the car and pulls him close, trapping Norah gently between them, pulling until Stiles’ forehead is resting against his. “Leave everything in the car, I’ll grab it later,” he says. “Want me to drop her off with someone and we can take a walk?”

“God yes,” Stiles breathes out, breath warm around Derek’s face. “I think _I’m_ about to scream, Derek, I can’t listen to her cry anymore. Do you mind if I—can you just catch up with me? I can’t—”

“Go,” he says, pulling away. “Lake?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He leans down and kisses Norah, hands his backpack over with a miserable look and walks away, hands shoved in his coat pockets and shoulders slumped. 

“I think you broke your daddy,” Derek whispers to her, and heads into the cabin. Sophie’s already cross-legged on the couch and looking at him expectantly with her hands held out; he lets the backpack fall onto the coffee table, grabs a throw pillow and puts it in her lap. “Only interested in your cousin, huh? No greeting for your uncles, just ‘give me the baby’? Where’s your mom? Lo!”

“She’s cooking with Grandma,” Sophie informs him, smiling gently when Derek lowers Norah into her lap and she starts cooing. “Hi, Nono,” she whispers, stroking her fingers across Norah’s tear-streaked, patchy-red cheeks. “Guess what? We’re at the cabin! Tomorrow we can play in the snow but Mom says it’s too late now, even though it’s not dark yet.”

“Mom also said you couldn’t take Norah out in the snow,” Laura says from the doorway, eyebrow raised, “so don’t go pretending to Uncle Derek that you’ve been told otherwise. Where’s the husband, little brother?”

“Probably trying to drown himself in the lake by now,” Derek says, resting a hand on Norah so he can look over at his sister. “Watch her for a bit? I’m going to go find him.”

“I can watch her,” Sophie says, and Laura laughs. 

“Go,” she says, brushing a hand over his arm before sinking down onto the couch. “Take as long as you need.”

The light is fading fast by the time he finds Stiles halfway around the lake, a smudged silhouette through the wind-stung tears blurring his vision. He quickens his pace; he can tell Stiles is trudging along slowly, lost in thought, feet shuffling and carving narrow tracks in the snow.

They probably should have stayed home this year. They’d considered it—well, he’d offered and Stiles had dismissed it out of hand, but Derek thinks maybe he should have pushed harder. The last year has been an adjustment for Derek; he’d had just over five weeks to revel in the feeling of being Stiles’ husband before they’d agreed to adopt Norah, and it seemed like that was the catalyst to several life-changing events happening in quick sucession. He’d never been more thankful to have Laura back in the States—she’d made list after list of things they’d need for a newborn, spent days dragging him around the city to get everything they needed, and helped him set up the nursery in the fading days of spring. What Laura couldn’t help with, Allison did, making decisions based on how well she knew Stiles, talking Derek out of second guessing everything, staying in his guest room after Norah was born, and holding his hand all those months that Stiles didn’t talk to him.

Most days, Derek understands. He thinks being traded probably hit Stiles harder than he’d anticipated because from the moment Lydia had called him in mid-May, Stiles had withdrawn. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t talk to Derek—he’d picked up the phone every time Derek called, faithfully sent him good morning texts, spent all his free time wrapped up in Derek the one weekend he’d managed to make it to Houston before Norah was born—he just _didn’t_ talk, not about anything that mattered. Gone was the rambling that Derek was used to, the frenetic energy that Stiles brought to their interactions; Derek’s never been the person who knew how to pull people out of themselves—he flounders when everything is put on him, and months later he’s still struggling to figure out how to support his husband while raising a baby. 

And he’s trying, but sometimes he’s angry that Stiles has pulled away when they’re supposed to be happiest. He thinks—perhaps selfishly—that he should be more important than baseball, that Stiles’ excitement over their growing family should have been enough to carry him through a few months in Houston. He’d known going into adopting Norah that Stiles would miss a significant amount of her first few weeks and that it would be difficult for him, but he hadn’t realized that nearly two months after the season ended he would still be struggling to accept the decision to end his career, and how much that would affect the rest of their lives. 

He slides his arm around Stiles’ waist when he catches up, pivoting to step in front of him and pull him close, stopping his slow trek around the lake. “Hey,” he says, sliding his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, tugging him close, relieved when Stiles ducks his head down to rest his forehead on Derek’s shoulder. 

“Hey,” Stiles murmurs. “She okay?”

“Are you?”

Stiles snorts. “That crying—fuck, it felt like she was ripping me in half. I’m already dreading the drive back to the airport. Thank God we don’t live somewhere where we need a car to get around.”

“Stiles,” he says; his stomach feels leaden, heart sinking down as he tries to decide what to say, if there’s anything that will help. “Are you sure you want to be here?”

There’s a slight pause and Stiles sighs, resting his body more heavily on Derek. “It’s that obvious? I’m sorry.”

“If you want to go back home,” he says slowly, “with or without us, or—we could go see your dad, we don’t need to stay here—i just want you to _talk_ to me, I don’t know what you want—”

Derek’s always liked the stillness at the cabin, the way he could go for hours without hearing anything but the shift of snow under their feet, how the branches crack under the weight of of a winter wonderland. He hates it now, in the silence before Stiles speaks, heavy and oppressive. “I’m sorry,” he says again; Derek tightens his grip when Stiles shifts, unwilling to let him go. “I know I’m hurting you. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care about that,” he says—lies, just a little. “I don’t know how to help you.”

There’s a kiss pressed just below his jaw and Stiles sighs. “Let’s go back,” he says, and ducks out of Derek’s embrace. “Come on.”

Stiles loves Norah. He may be quieter with Derek, but his love for his daughter is evident in the curve of his body as he holds her, the soft bounce of his arms as he carries her around the kitchen, trailing after Sophie as she pretends to cook them dinner. Derek can hear it in the way he calls her _sweetheart_ and sings to her, changes the tempo of all his favorite songs to something slow and lullabyesque, sees it in the way Stiles trails his fingers across her cheek and looks at her in fascination, _feels_ it when he tucks Norah between them when they slide into bed and brackets her with their bodies, one hand resting on her belly.

“Your mom thinks I’m depressed,” Stiles asks after a moment. Derek reaches over and takes his hand, tangles their fingers together and strokes his thumb across Stiles’, a silent plea to continue. “She cornered me after dinner.”

“I saw,” he says. He had thought about intervening for a moment, but Talia would find a way to talk to Stiles regardless, and Derek’s not above admitting that he hoped it would help for Stiles to know his family was worried about him. “What do you think?”

“Jackson said the same thing,” Stiles says. “I kept thinking—what right do I have to be depressed? I have you and Norah, more money than I know what to do with, Dad’s finally getting married to Melissa—but—”

“That’s not how it works,” Derek says, gently, when it’s clear he isn’t going to continue. He slides his hand up Stiles’ arm, cups jaw and sweeps a thumb over his lips. “Stiles, maybe you should see someone. I don’t know how to help, but Asha—she’d see you, if you wanted. Or we could find someone else.”

His heart feels like it’s waiting to start beating again until Stiles breathes out slowly and nods. “Yeah, maybe—yeah. I will. I’ll call and set up an appointment when we drive out to see the lights.” He turns his head and kisses the center of Derek’s palm, sighing when Derek pushes himself up onto his forearm, leans over and kisses him. It’s so _Stiles_ to make a decision and want to act on it immediately that it lightens some of the tension Derek has been carrying around. Stiles’ hand is on his cheek, mouth coaxing Derek’s open. “I love you,” he says quietly. “Sorry I haven’t shown you.”

Derek shakes his head, kisses him again. “I’ve always known,” he says. “You show me all the time.”

“You sure she’s actually in there?” Stiles says, eyebrow raised as Derek rolls his eyes. “I just don’t want to accidentally leave her here because you stuffed the carrier so full of fabric that you couldn’t tell you left our daughter behind.”

He flips Norah’s hood back so Stiles can see her, feigning annoyance even though his heart lifts at the way Stiles presses his lips together in an attempt to hold laughter in. “It’s twenty degrees outside, I don’t want her to be cold,” he says, pulling her winter hat down a little, making sure her ears are covered before he lifts the hood back up. Her brown eyes disappear under it immediately and he sighs before flicking it back off. “Grab her blanket.”

“Derek,” Stiles says, shaking his head, “she’s in a snowsuit and you put your scarf around her. She doesn’t need the blanket.” He grabs it anyway, giving Derek a look filled with such adoration that Derek grabs him by the wrist and tugs him close, ducking to bury his face in Stiles’ neck. He feels Stiles’ hands tucking the edges of the blanket around the carrier strapped to his chest, folding the top in snugly to keep the cold air out. He runs a gloved hand up through Derek’s hair when he’s done and Derek feels his shoulders shake slightly before he pulls away. 

They walk in silence down the road that leads to the light display; Derek ignores Stiles’ snort of laughter when he tries to tug his coat around Norah, whose cheeks are flushed red from the cold as she watches the buildings passing by. He takes Stiles’ hand in his, arms swinging gently in between them until Stiles lets go and slips his arm around Derek’s waist, hand sneaking into Derek’s coat pocket. 

“I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot lately,” Stiles says after a minute. Derek slows down; he can see his family ahead, paused by a brightly lit herd of reindeer clustered around a sleigh, and he wants to give Stiles a chance to talk without being overheard. “I, uh, I knew, you know, that she’d—I thought I’d gotten over it. When Scott and Allison got married I freaked out because it wasn’t something I’d thought of when I was younger, all the things she would miss, so when we got married—I was fine. I’d dealt with it already. But when Norah was born—”

In front of them, Sophie is laughing, bending to pick up handfuls of snow that she tosses in the air like confetti, over and over until she falls on her bottom and kicks her feet wildly. William picks her up, throwing her over his shoulder with a grin until Laura comes around and peppers her cheek with kisses. 

“I guess there’s a difference between what you know and what you feel,” Stiles says quietly, voice cracking. “I knew she’d never meet Norah or the rest of our kids, whenever we have them, and I thought that because I accepted that, I’d be okay. I didn’t think I’d feel like this. I can’t shake it.”

Derek steers him around the corner, ignoring Stiles’ confused glance as he pulls them off the sidewalk and near a copse of trees, shadowing them from passersby. He drags Stiles into a hug, as close as he can get with Norah and all the layers Derek had piled on her in between them, leans in and rests their foreheads together, pressing his palm to Stiles’ cheek. There are a dozen things he wants to say: assurances that she’d be proud of him, that she’d love him and Norah; that Derek had thought all his feelings were wrapped up in being traded and how he feels like an asshole for not realizing sooner that Stiles had been mourning his mom all over again; wants to know if he’s talked to Noah or Jackson or _anyone_ about it and why he hadn’t felt like he could share that hurt with Derek. Instead he says, “it’s okay to feel like that,” and worries he’s said the wrong thing when Stiles sniffs and Derek feels warm tears run down his palm. “You should talk to your dad,” he adds quietly. “He’d want to help.”

“You’re not going to cry this time, are you sweetheart?” Stiles asks, voice pitched higher as he buckles Norah into her carseat, easing the straps over her chubby arms. “No, you’re not, because you know that carseats keep you safe when Daddy drives like a maniac—”

“You’re worse than I am,” Derek says, tossing Stiles’ backpack into the passenger seat and closing the door. 

“Hey, defensive driving is very important,” Stiles says, making a face at him before turning back to Norah. “Your Grandpa taught me that. Constant vigilance! That was Mad-Eye Moody, but it might as well have been Grandpa.”

Derek gives an exaggerated look around. “What exactly are you defending against out here, the snow?”

“Shut up, asshole, let’s go before she—” Stiles groans as Norah opens her mouth and begins to wail. “Guess I’m back here again,” he says, ignoring Derek when he shakes his head and tries to push him towards the front of the car. 

“She doesn’t want to sit with someone calling her Dad names,” Derek says, but Stiles just kisses him and walks around to the other side of the car.

“She’s a Stilinski, she knows that asshole is a term of endearment,” he says, sliding into the backseat and leaning forward to grab his backpack, tossing it at his feet as Derek climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. “Maybe we can switch halfway if she doesn’t let up.”

“I think we’ll be fine,” Derek says, watching in the rearview mirror as Stiles reaches across the middle and rubs his fingers slowly against her cheek and up to her wispy dark curls, murmuring softly. She takes in a stuttering breath and releases it, and Derek meets Stiles’ eyes when he looks up and smiles. “She’s a Hale, she knows how to get what she wants.”

**Author's Note:**

> happy to take prompts @ [tumblr](http://elisela.tumblr.com). here's the [rebloggable tumblr link](https://elisela.tumblr.com/post/635349340947447808/with-a-grateful-heart-elisela-teen-wolf-tv) if you'd like.


End file.
